


Fragments

by Arya_Silvertongue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Silvertongue/pseuds/Arya_Silvertongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She walked with the Universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings." - Ariana Dancu</p><p>A collection of drabbles surrounding the many lives led by Arya Stark of Winterfell. (multiverse)</p><p> </p><p>Canon Arya Stark Appreciation Week</p><p>DAY 1 (Fave Quote) - Enchanté (3/3) "Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.” (Arya/Jon)<br/>DAY 2 (Fave Familial Relationship) - "Bran keeps Arya's secrets." (Arya & Bran)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lazarus Pit

**.**

 Arya Stark dies with a smile.

 

……

 

Hours before the ceremony, and for the first time since she can remember, the waif roused her from a deep slumber. After donning her black-and-white robe, she followed her as they silently walked through the darkness.

When she returned from the Summer Isles yesterday, the Kindly Man told her that she was no longer to be an acolyte; that her training is finished. One last rite and she will be ordained a priest.

Inside a chamber she has never entered before, two female servants led her to the center where a full-length Myrish mirror stood. Confused, she turned to the waif, who only nodded in response. Slowly, they rid her of her robe and shift, took off her sandals and untangled the braid the captain of _The Midnight Siren_ did for her, as a parting gift. It had been so long since she last gazed upon her reflection. Her own body and face. Now, standing there as naked as her name day, she looked at herself. Gone was the short and skinny little girl that traipsed along the docks of Ragman’s Harbor, and was instead replaced by a tall and slender figure with countless scars adorning her skin, each one with a different story to tell.

She noticed that her head almost reached the top edge of the mirror and she grinned despite herself. _Bran would be jealous,_ she thought. Catching sight of the waif behind her, she clenched her jaw. _But Brandon Stark was someone else’s brother. Not yours._

Ever since she returned to the House of Black and White, Arya Stark’s memories began to resurface. Every moment locked away, every name she thought was long forgotten came back so suddenly a fellow acolyte had to stop her from falling straight into the pool. By the end of the day, when she returned to her cell, she was shaking so bad she was sure the Kindly Man took notice.

When the servants pulled out a gown they insisted she wear, it dawned on her that maybe he did.

“What is this?” she demanded to the waif.

The woman in question merely eyed her with disinterest. “It is important for you to look the part.”

The garment was exquisite, and painfully familiar. It was long, the hem of its overskirt touching the ground despite being held above her shoulders. It is of light blue brocade with delicate silver goldwork and the collar is made of ermine fur.

_A gown fit for Northern nobility._

It would not have made her gawk so uncharacteristically if it were just that. Years spent training her face to do her bidding had taught her so. But this was different.

Because this gown is an exact replica of the one Catelyn Stark wore the last time she saw her.

 

……

 

They are deep within the temple.

So deep that she gave up counting the steps after an hour.

The place was huge, bigger than the foyer in the first level of their dwelling, but with fewer statues. In fact, no statues can be seen in the surroundings. There was no pool as well. The only significant sight to behold were two columns of lighted candles; creating a path that led to an ominous cement table.

And behind it stood the Kindly Man.

The waif, who insisted that she go inside alone, was on the other side of the ironwood door. She held her wrist so tight and whispered _valar morghulis_ in a manner she never did before. Like it was a farewell.

Now, with the marble floor cold against her bare feet, she began to walk towards her mentor.

Her stride was slow and careful. Her long hair –the longest it has been– had small braids on both sides of her head, which met at the center and were tied together with a beautiful lace. Tucked into it was a single blue winter rose.

When she reached the Kindly Man at the end of the candle trail, she realized that this was the first time she looked every bit the lady her mother and Septa Mordane insisted she be –save for the lack of shoes.

“Who are you?” the priest asked.

It took all her will and half her strength to contain the flare of anger that consumed her at his feigned ignorance. “A better question would be,” she began, conjuring the diplomacy skills she learned from her time in the Iron Bank. “ _who are you turning me into?_ ”

Always amused at her answers, he smiled at her. A perfect imitation of the smile she once revered as a child, the lower half of his face morphing to mirror that of a certain Warden of the North. “Always so impatient.”

Reeling from the shock, she took a step back, her knees trembling.

_What is happening?_

“Have you learned nothing, girl?” The Faceless Man thundered as he started to walk towards her, the voice of her old septa echoing throughout the temple.

This time, she found herself unable to move. Standing there paralyzed, she felt as confused and scared as the first time she woke up blind.

He broke his stride a few steps in front of her. With a snap of his fingers, the candles burned brighter and Arya Stark found herself in the middle of Winterfell’s Great Hall.

The place was empty and only a few torches were lit, but her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She’d recognize those tables and tapestries anywhere.

_What is going on?_

As she broke free from whatever spell he had her in, she staggered away from him, her labored breaths loud against her ears. When the Kindly Man spoke again, his voice seemed like a faint echo.

“A girl has to remember first, so she can truly forget.”

She heard another snap, and the illusion was gone.

Still shaking, she willed her tears to stop and rubbed her eyes in anger. When she turned to the old man, his face remained unchanged. Always so amiable. Always so kind.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked in a whisper, feeling like the little child of ten summers who always went to sleep in hunger and fear.

“We must awaken Arya Stark,” he spoke in a soft voice, taking both her hands in his. “before we bid her goodbye.”

Her eyes closed of their own volition, and she began to feel the familiar breeze that accompanied the summer snow.

 

……

 

Something cold and wet –yet solid, hit her square in the face. She lost her balance and tumbled backwards, her fingers freezing despite wearing gloves.

_Snow._

“It seems you had too much mutton pie, little sister,” a voice called as huge hands helped her to get up. When her vision cleared, she saw the face of Robb Stark, his grin teasing. “Bran will never let you hear the end of it.”

_Robb._

She wanted to touch his face, to crush him in a hug and never let go. But her body moved of its own accord, and she found herself shoving her brother.

“I should’ve stayed with Sansa,” was her response.

And she knew it was exactly what she said. Remembered it was precisely what she told him. Because that is all this is. _A memory._

_A girl has to remember first, so she can truly forget._

It still doesn’t stop her heart from aching when Robb raised a gloved hand, tapping her cheek in affection. “You don’t mean that.”

_Of course, she didn’t._

.

She was now in her bedchamber, lying under thick layers of fur.

After her eyes adjusted to the dark, she noticed her mother beside her, making a prayer wheel. A moment later and her father arrived, along with Maester Luwin.

“How is our little lady?”

Her throat was dry. “I-…I’m..”

She heard her father chuckle. “I believe she wanted to remind you she’s not a lady, Maester Luwin.”

She’s not sure if it was from the fever or her own raging emotions, but her eyes were suddenly awash with tears.

“Hush now, my sweet. You'll be alright,” Catelyn Stark whispered, quick to get to her bedside.

She also felt her father approach as he held her other hand. “Your mother’s right. You’ll be up and causing your septa grief in the morrow.”

The old maester smiled and handed them a small vial. “This will help her rest.”

When she felt the cold glass against her lips, she was only able to recognize Sweetsleep moments before she was spiralling back into darkness.

.

“You are going to _fall_.” she heard herself shout in annoyance.

Bran was dangling off a rampart, before pushing himself up and perching along the walkway on top of it.

“I won’t,” he replied, indignant.

She remained standing there with Summer and Nymeria, her arms crossed and her face in a scowl.

“Mother will have both our heads on spikes if she sees you.”

From his place a little closer to the skies, her brother merely laughed. “Since when do _you_ listen to mother?”

For a moment, the idea of being as obedient as Sansa had her shuddering. But she refused to relent.

“I don’t wish to do more needlework.” she replied.

Bran laughed louder at the look of disgust on his sister’s face.

“Come on, Arya. Mother won’t know.” He gestured at the space beside him. “ _Promise_.”

Feeling her resolve breaking, she grinned and quickly petted the wolves before climbing herself.

 

……

 

When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the temple.

There was now a huge pool in front of her, water as black as ink. When she turned around, the Kindly Man was nowhere to be seen, and behind her stood statues she has never seen before.

 _The  Faith_.

But that cannot be right. The new gods have no place in the House of Black and White.

As she started to walk towards them, she began to see the difference. _These aren’t the new gods_.

Her heartbeat became loud against her ears as she recognized the likeness carved into the stones.

_No._

The Mother and The Father wore the faces of her own parents. Instead of a strong man holding a hammer, she saw her brother Rickon, with a stone replica of Shaggydog at his feet. Beautiful Sansa was beside him, clutching a flower. Next to her was Bran, carrying a lantern and standing as though he never lost his legs from the fall.

And side by side, the figures of Robb and Jon stood, holding their swords and looking every bit the warriors they were trained to be.

When she reached the last statue, she refused to look up.

“Go on and _look_ , girl.” The Kindly Man spoke as he appeared, waiting by the edge of the pool.

As she raised her eyes, a shuddering breath escaped her lips.

The Stranger stood in front of her, holding a skull and wearing her face.

 

……

 

As she lurched backwards, she lost her balance before the Kindly Man held her wrist and prevented her from falling.

“Who are you?” he asked once more.

His grip was tight and she struggled to let go.

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know _. I don’t know_!”

He released her hand and she took a step back, quivering like a novice.

Tears sprang from her eyes and she bit her lip to prevent herself from sobbing. She looked back to the statues. Her family.

“Who are you, child?”

“Arya…” she heard herself whisper. “I am… Arya.”

When she turned her gaze to the priest, her grey eyes were hard.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

Her response made the Kindly Man smile.

“Good.” He raised one hand to her cheek, the same way Robb did in her memories. “Now we must let Arya Stark go.”

Before she can do anything, his other hand moved and Arya felt a sharp pain to her abdomen. When she looked down, the Kindly Man had thrust a sword right through her.

Her knees began to buckle and she could taste the blood in her mouth, but in that moment, she could not care less. She fixed her gaze on the hilt of the sword, its familiar features providing her with a sense of warmth even in her dazed state.

She knew that if she could just see the blade, she would be able to make out the mark of Winterfell’s old blacksmith.

_Stick 'em with the pointy end._

When the Kindly Man pulled the sword out, Arya’s limp body slowly fell into the pool.

With her last thoughts that of her brother and his voice, she allowed the water to engulf her.

 

……

 

Arya Stark dies with a smile.

 

No One wakes up with a loud gasp.

 

And several levels above them, a woman kneels next to the fountain. For a split second, her eyes turn grey, as she falls to her death before the black cup even reaches her lips.


	2. Enchanté (1/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A taciturn sellsword from Lorath meets a blue-haired Tyroshi. (Arya/Aegon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And with that, I come with the decision to make this a collection of drabbles from multiple universes and realities, instead of just from a single continuity (to cater to the many plot bunnies i just can't fit in one timeline). Enchanté will have 3 parts, chronicling Arya's first meetings with the three Targaryens who will someday vie for her heart :)

_Neriah of Lorath, Braavos_

 

 

 

The door to the alehouse opened, and a tall figure exited in a blur of black and white.

 

 

_What do you know that you did not know when you left us?_

 

She walked briskly, though her steps were even and silent. The only sound to be heard was the occasional _clink_ of her sword’s sheath against its hilt and her ragged breathing, audible to no one but herself.

 

 

_I know that Tormo Fregar is fond of the Lorathi. Especially ones with odd hair._

 

 

“Should’ve stayed at Pynto’s,” she muttered darkly. Spotting the familiar outline of the Sweetwater River, she turned right and walked alongside it. The fog was thicker that night, but if one would look closely, Neriah would be a sight to behold. Towering and proud in dark leather, her long hair reached behind her knees, one side white and the other black.

 

 

_I also know that The Gate has acquired a new dwarf._

 

 

Blanketed by the shadow of the aqueduct, she adjusted her mask –a black hawk– and slowed her stride when she neared the Moon Pool. The place was deserted, the voices of people from the Purple Harbor celebrating the ninth day of the Unmasking mere echoes.

“Ria!” someone whispered from behind her. A moment later, a small creature came barreling towards Neriah. When she looked down, a red mask of a cat was gaping at her, twin blue eyes sparkling.

“Sweet Boash, Tianna!” The child released Neriah from her grasp and stood in front of her, dressed in the same garb the Lorathi was in.

Unable to hide her amusement, the older leather-clad warrior smirked. “What is a little lady doing dressed like that?”

“I’m not a lady!”

For a moment, something flashed in Neriah’s grey eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and her smile became teasing. “But a girl _is_ the Sealord’s only daughter. She mustn’t be out wandering by herself in the middle of the night.”

With that, the little girl bowed her head and muttered, “I’m in trouble, Ria.”

“What trouble?” the older girl asked. When Tianna looked up again, she was biting her lip.

“I challenged him to a duel.”

 

 

_And I know that a blue-haired Tyroshi has been dueling bravos ever since the Unmasking started, and no one has bested him since._

 

 

“A girl did _what_?”

“I only wanted to prove a point to Qarro! I was not expecting he would accept!”

The Lorathi closed her eyes. “Is he to duel a girl tonight?”

Tianna nodded.

“Then a girl must go home, now. A woman will fight in her place.”

“For true? But I want to watch!”

Neriah pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No. A girl has done enough. A woman shall speak to Qarro _and_ your father when she’s done.”

“But Ria!”

“Go.”

 

 

 

_The Many-Faced God has given a name. The celebration of the Unmasking is in a fortnight. You will be given a new face and a new name to accomplish this task._

 

 

 

Neriah sat by the edge of the fountain, expertly tying her hair back in a knot. When she was done, she heard footsteps approaching. As she looked up, the Tyroshi stood in front of her, wearing a golden dragon mask, blue hair glistening under the moonlight. As she drew herself to her full height, her would-be opponent cocked his head to one side.

“Huh. You’re certainly taller than I remember.” His Braavosi was perfect, but accented.

Nodding in respect, she replied, “The girl you are to duel could not make it. A woman is to take her place.”

“Lorathi,” he pointed out. A moment later, he snorted. “So she _is_ craven.”

“ _She_ ,” Neriah bristled, “is a six-year old _child_. Her challenge was made in jest and yet a _boy_ still accepted.”

His smile gone, the blue-haired stranger lifted his chin and turned his gaze to her, eyes hard. “You call me a _boy_ and yourself a woman?” As she nodded, he barked out a laugh. “I’m sorry, my lady. But even with the mask on, I know you’re no older than me.”

And he was right. Neriah of Lorath is a few years his junior, the girl behind the face even more so.

“The only reason I even agreed to the duel was because she amused me,” he continued. When he looked at her again, his dark eyes seemed earnest. “Surely you did not think I would hurt the poor girl, did you?”

“A boy’s intentions are not a woman’s concern. He agreed to a duel. A woman is here to honor that deal.” Before the Tyroshi could react, Neriah brandished her sword, the pommel of her rapier cold against her fingers.

“You really are not japing, aren’t you?” he muttered, pulling his own weapon out. “Then let us begin.”

The woman charged and the Tyroshi took a step back, shocked at her aggressive nature. As they danced around each other, he tried to mask his surprise with a disarming smile. “My name is Griff. What is yours?”

She clipped his attempt at a conversation with a simple maneuver and seconds later, Griff found his own sword stuck on top of the fountain, the sleeve of his white shirt torn and stained with blood.

“How...?”

“A boy was distracted,” she replied, sliding her weapon back to its sheath, “and his stance was awful.”

Affronted, he placed his hands on his hips and for a moment, Neriah thought he would demand an apology for being defeated. When it seemed like his ire has subsided, he sighed and sat on the fountain.

“Eight nights I have dueled with men here. Eight nights I emerged the victor.” When he turned to her, his grin was modest and even behind the mask, she could tell that his expression was genuine. “Figured a lady would end my reign.”

“A woman is not a lady,” she countered, sitting beside him.

“No,” Griff agreed, “I suppose she’s not.”

Their silence was interrupted with a groan from the lad. “He will be so mad,” she heard him mutter.

“Who?”

Ashamed that she heard him, he fiddled with his mask. “My… _guardian_. He is already wroth with me for causing us to stay longer in Braavos. Now, I’m going to go home with a cut on my arm.”

Amused at his ranting, she crossed her arms. “And what exactly _did_ a boy do?”

Sensing that she’s treating him like a petulant child, he glared at her. “Our companion. A dwarf. He’s been _seized_ by a mummer’s troupe.”

“That’s quite a story,” Neriah said, surprised. “And I assume you believe it wasn’t entirely your fault?”

“Who cares? They won’t bloody listen!” he huffed. “I suppose we’ll be here for a while.”

For a few more moments, they sat in silence. When the Lorathi stood up and spoke, Griff noticed her voice had changed.

“Fortunately,” she said, “a woman may just be able to help a boy get his friend back.”

“Truly? How?” Before his joy could betray him, he crossed his arms.  “And why would you help me?”

“A boy has been…” she paused, struggling to find the right words. “ _honorable_ in his defeat. And King of the Mummers owes a girl a favor.”

“Really, now?” he stood up and held her gaze, smirking. “The gods have blessed me with such a generous opponent.”

“Tell Izembaro to release the friend at once,” she instructed, adjusting the strap of her belt.

His eyebrows shot up from his mask “And he will do whatever every mysterious Lorathi woman tells him to do?”

“No.” Her smile then was melancholic. “Tell him Mercedene has come to collect the boon he’s granted her.”

His eyes sparkled at her response. “Is that your name? Mercedene?”

 

_No._

 

Griff noticed her stiffen at his question.

 

_I have confused a different name with another face._

 

She merely nodded and smiled. “A woman must leave now.”

“Wait!” he interrupted before she can turn around. “Will you be here tomorrow? At the end of the Unmasking?”

 

 

_See to it that the task is done before midnight of the tenth day. Now go. The God of Many Faces has given the order._

 

 

“Why?”

“I would….like to know you, my lady,” he answered, what little of his face she can see flaming red.

“Perhaps you’d see a woman, then. Farewell, my lord.” With a mock courtesy, she turned around, walking towards the Purple Harbor.

“I’m not a lord!” he managed to call out.

She stopped but did not turn to face him. “And I’m not a lady.”

 

 

The following day, countless bravos and visitors from the other Free Cities unveiled their masks in unison, while Young Griff searched the sea of faces for a black hawk.

As the Titan roared, No One slipped out of her mask and Neriah of Lorath was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UP NEXT: Arya and Dany (i'll churn it out as soon as i can, so please pray for me haha)


	3. Enchanté (2/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everywhere she looks, all Dany sees is grey. (Arya/Daenerys)

 

 

Everywhere she looks, all Dany sees is grey.

 

 

 

By the time she returns to Mereen with Drogon, twenty thousand riders, and Jhaqo’s ashes, Daenerys is so exhausted she barely sees Ser Barristan running towards her before she feels herself slip out of the world and into the cold pavement beneath the Gates of Fate.

When she wakes up, she’s back in her chambers. Outside, she finds Drogon and Viserion huddled by the terrace garden, fast asleep under the moonlit sky. It takes her a while to notice Rhaegal, perched atop the black pyramid he claimed for himself. Yearning for all her children, Daenerys stands on the parapet and beckons the green beast to her.

She feels Rhaegal’s brief hesitation before he spreads his wings and not a moment sooner, her dragon lands on the balcony so silently none of his brothers so much as stir.

When Dany reaches out to touch his scales, Rhaegal jerks and the young queen gasps as large, twinkling eyes stare back at her.

 

Grey eyes.

 

 

.

 

 

After the last of the Yunkai'i falls and Victorian Greyjoy demands an audience with her, Daenerys decides to see Ben Plumm before she meets with the ironborn. When they drag the captain of the Second Sons before her, he is accompanied by Jorah, a dwarf, and a tall sellsword.

Before she can tear at her former Queensguard for his presence in her court after she expressly demanded he leave, the mysterious stranger beside him catches her gaze and Ser Barristan’s loud proclamation that a Lannister is among them falls on deaf ears as Dany finds herself consumed by dangerously stunning, grey eyes.

 

 

When she visits Tyrion Lannister in his cell that night, she finds him trembling and, to her surprise, alone.

“Where is your friend?”

He manages a shrug, still staring at the empty space in the opposite corner. “He’s gone.”

She’s not inclined to believe any child of Tywin Lannister, but the awe and terror in Tyrion’s voice are proof enough.

“Who is he?”

The prisoner looks at Dany and his mismatched eyes reflect the kind of sorrow she knows all too well.

“I don’t know. He tried to kill me.”

He doesn’t look surprised, but Dany is. “What stopped him?”

Tyrion turns his gaze back to the dark cell.

”I told him his eyes remind me of a bastard I once knew.”

 

 

.

 

 

The day she meets Jon Snow, the first thing she notices is his eyes.

 

 

Grey, Stark eyes.

 

 

They look familiar, but Dany knows they’re not the ones she’s looking for.

When he sees her staring, a solemn look crosses his long, Stark face. A look that tells her she’s not the first person to gaze upon him and see someone else. Perhaps he, too, looks in the mirror and wishes to see another.

He talks about the North and all it does is make Daenerys wish she can ride deep into the winter. But Targaryens are not made for the cold, where grey-eyed phantoms rule.

 

 

.

 

 

Aegon possesses the best Targaryens and Martells have to offer. With his silver hair and violet eyes standing out from Dornish, sun-kissed skin, he looks everything a crown prince should be and Tyrion likes to complain about the unfairness of it all every time he gets a chance.

Whenever Egg’s celibacy is talked about, and every time some people would rather compare him to the previous Egg’s son Daeron instead of fight in a war, her nephew just brushes the rumors away.

When Dany asks him about this, her brother’s son answers with a boyish smile on his face.

“There is someone.”

She regards him with an inquisitive look and at that moment, though he is years her senior, he looks so much like Viserys in his youth that Dany fights the urge to sob.

“And what, if I may be so bold, is this _someone’s_ name?”

Aegon shrugs. “I have yet to know. I met her in Braavos. And after the war, I’ll return to look for her.”

She doesn’t wish to deny him his folly, but his plan _does_ seem a bit unsound.

“She has the most beautiful, grey eyes I’ve ever seen.”

 

Suddenly, Dany can’t breathe.

 

 

.

 

 

She gives Jon Rhaegal when they found out the truth.

Although it pains her, she can see that the green dragon takes to Jon in way he never did to Dany.

 

 

As Castle Black falls, Jon leads the vanguard with the Northern bannermen and the Free Folk.  When they realize they need all three dragons in the air, Jon shares a tearful farewell with Ghost and mounts Rhaegal.

Dany has long since noticed a ritual between dragon and rider every time her brother’s bastard flies.

 

Now, as Jon presses his forehead to the nose of the enormous creature, Rhaegal opens his eyes and the grey that greeted Daenerys almost makes her fall off of Drogon.

 

 

.

 

 

“Who is there?”

Daenerys grabs the first torch she could find and silently commands her heart to stop pounding.

It is dark outside and in the dead of the night, the winter seems endless. All the other tents are quiet and Dany fears she may not be able to even gasp before she dies.

 

She was writing a letter to Aegon when she heard it. A single, faint howl.

Dany knows the seven kingdoms have been ruled by ancient beasts long before Targaryens landed in Westeros. And she also knows that even a dragon can be forced to kneel before a mighty pack of wolves.

 

She reaches the edge of the frozen forest when she hears it again.

This time, so much howling resonates through the clearing that she wonders exactly how none of the others are wrenched from their slumber. Behind her, inside the flimsy tents swaying in the cold wind, none of her men so much as stir.

Daenerys grips the torch tighter and ventures further into the woods.

In the middle of the forest, the trees open up to reveal a small glade. At the center is a huge rock. Atop it, sits an enormous, grey direwolf.

The light from her torch flickers as Dany’s hands tremble at the sight.

 

The North is indeed a place for wolves. Grey wolves and grey eyes.

 

She finds herself frozen to her spot when the wolf turns to look at her. Dany sees its fierce and painfully familiar grey eyes shimmer before it blinks and they turn to gold.

Surprisingly, a gasp escapes the queen’s lips.

Dany is no skilled warrior, but she is not a fool.

She knows she can only feel the presence slowly making itself known behind her only because whoever it is allowed her to.

Against rational thought or reason, Daenerys whips her torch to her right, illuminating the phantom in the dark.

The fire shines upon the thin blade now pointed at her throat.

 

Slowly, violet eyes trace the blade towards its hilt, held by a stranger with sad and beautiful grey eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UP NEXT: Jonryaaa!! (and I will try to participate in the Canon Arya Stark Appreciation week, so stay tuned!)


	4. Enchanté (3/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Arya Stark Appreciation Week (Day 1 – Favorite Quote) 
> 
> Enchanté (3/3) 
> 
> "Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.” (Arya/Jon)

 

 

_It’s me, Jon._

 

 

It’d been three days, and the boy still had not seen his new sister.

 

All of Winterfell was busy preparing for the feast. Vayon Poole was at his wit’s end, and Gage had not been seen outside the kitchen in a long time. Every man and woman in the castle could not wait to welcome the new Stark.  All save one.

 

“What are you doing here?”

Ned entered the room and frowned at the sulking boy on the bed. Even at five, he seemed to have mastered the stoic look of the Starks it’s a shame some people still refused to regard him as such.

“Robb has been looking for you,” the Lord of Winterfell said. “Apparently the Greyjoy boy is no good at cyvasse.”

The boy made no reply, so Ned took off his riding gloves and sat beside him.

“Is something bothering you?”

Grey eyes stared back at Ned, beseeching. It took a moment before the boy blinked and sighed. “Nothing, father.”

The lord could not help but smile at the blatant lie. “You would not lock yourself in this room if it were nothing, Jon.”

The boy pouted even more, but refused to say anything else.

“I certainly hope Arya does not grow up to be as sullen as you.”

Ned’s smile faded when Jon looked up, confused. “Arya?”

“The baby,” Ned replied. “Your sister. You’ve seen her, right?”

The boy looked even more dejected when he shook his head. “Septa Mordane forbade me to join Robb and Sansa when Lady Catelyn called for them.” He shrugged and looked outside the window. “It’s for the best.”

Ned frowned. “How so?”

“She’ll have red hair and blue eyes,” the boy said, “and Lady Catelyn will never allow her to play with me.”

A solemn look crossed Ned’s face before he squeezed the boy’s shoulder and shortly left the room. When he returned, he brought with him a small bundle of blankets and beckoned the boy to come closer.

In his arms was the baby, with tiny fingers, a red face, and bright, Stark eyes.

Jon loved her then and there, and tears filled his eyes.

“Hello,” he whispered, afraid anything louder would upset the baby and make her hate him. Sensing his hesitation, Ned moved the bundle and gently placed the newborn on the boy’s arms. Though a little surprised, Jon was careful and steady.

“Hello,” he repeated. “It’s me, Jon.”

The baby blinked, and slowly held out a hand. It missed Jon’s nose, and the boy moved his head to guide it.

“I’m here.” Tiny fingers caressed Jon’s face, and a soft smile broke across his face. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

 

She had brown hair and grey eyes, and not even the Lady of Winterfell could stop her from loving Jon best.

Wherever Jon was, Arya would soon follow.

 

 

Until she no longer could.

 

 

_Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?_

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

“It’s me. _Jon_.”

 

 

Silence draped over the Great Hall like a shroud as the young woman raised two blades – one to where Edd and a few of the Free Folk stood with their own weapons, and another pointed just below Lord Snow’s chin.

“Arya...”

As he uttered her name, some of the swords were lowered, albeit with a little confusion.  But when the woman just pressed her own to Snow’s throat close enough to draw blood, most of the men bristled, causing panic and tears to well in Jon’s eyes. The stranger’s grey ones, very much like his own, remained hard.

“I said, _who are you?”_

Her voice never wavered, but there must have been something in her words that Jon recognized, for the tears finally fell. He raised two hands of his own then – the right to still the blades of his men, the left in a desperate attempt to both show the woman his sincerity and to steady his own pounding heart.

“You say you’re Jon,” she spoke again, “you _believe_ you’re Jon, but my brother is dead.”

Her stance was perfect, her gaze and statement resolute, but Jon knew the girl and knew her well. Years of loving her made him privy to the brief hesitation the glimmer in her eyes showed.

And the slightest hesitation was all Jon needed.

He quickly moved the sword away to envelope her in a tight embrace. When her blades fell on the floor, so did Arya, and Jon’s arms were all that held her in place.

“I was beginning to forget, you know,” Arya whispered against her brother’s shoulder. “But then they told me you died, and I remembered everything again.”

 

_I wish you were coming with us_

 

_Stick them with the pointy end_

 

 

_I will miss you, little sister_

 

They were both crying now, and all eyes were on them, but neither could care less.

“I remembered, so I left.” Arya felt numb, and Jon could not stop trembling, but they both felt peace in a way only a Stark could in the middle of a raging snow storm. “I left because you died.”

He held her shoulders so he could see her face. A thousand memories flickered in her eyes, and when it passed, Arya saw Jon clear as day.

“You died, and _I wasn’t there_.”

He moved a loose strand stuck to her forehead and pressed his own against hers.

“I’m here now,” he told her. “You’re safe.”

He hugged her again and for the first time in a long time, he closed his eyes and he, too, felt safe.

“We’re home.”


	5. My Sister's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Arya Stark Appreciation Week (Day 2 – Favorite Familial Relationship)
> 
> "Bran keeps Arya's secrets." (Arya & Bran)

 

_Valar morghulis_

 

The words echoed across the godswood like an uninvited guest.

“Valar dohaeris,” she replied absently, turning away from the heart tree only to huff in a most unladylike manner when she realized who it was. “You are aware you know too much, right?”

Bran wheeled between two sentinels towards her, a queer look on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Your dragon queen was looking for you.”

She laughed this time, pulling her swords out of her belt before setting them down and sitting beneath the weirwood. “For someone who knows everything, you sure ask a lot of questions.”

Brother and sister sat together at the center of the grove, as their father once did.

“I was cleaning Needle,” she told him. “Rickon is a fast learner and my blade suffers because of it.”  She gave him a queer look of her own, less knowing than his but all the more daring for it. “But you already know that.”

“I do,” he agreed. “I know everything now.”

There was a long moment of silence before Arya nodded sharply. “Good.”

 _Bring him back_ , she told them. _Bring him back or I’ll destroy all of you._

It was the night before the wedding and Brandon Stark would not wake. So Arya marched towards the godswood in the middle of the night, made a pact with the old gods, and the King in the North opened his eyes once again.

“Why did you do it?”

Arya continued to run a cloth along the steel of Dark Sister; the only sign of her attention was the slight tilt of her head. “Did what?”

Bran sighed, more out of frustration than anger. “You may speak plainly with me. I am your brother.”

“ _Little_ brother,” she corrected. “I used to carry you when you were a babe.”

Her words brought a gentle smile to his lips. “I used to wonder why I even missed you.”

“You did?”

“I did.” He kept his gaze on the frozen pond. “I still do, sometimes.”

He heard the clatter of the sword when she put it down, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

“What is it you really want to know, Bran?”

 _What did you do to her?_ he asked them. He raged at the gods when he first saw her, so far away from home. And when the gods answered, when he was shown every single terrible thing his sister went through, Bran could only whimper in helplessness.

“Why did you do it?” He looked her in the eye, so very much like Jon’s when they spoke earlier, when he told him exactly what Arya did to bring him back. “You knew I’d see everything, you must’ve known.”

It was the night before the wedding and Brandon Stark wanted nothing more than to fly.

He told Meera he does not deserve the crown – that he does not deserve her. So when he made her upset enough to leave him alone, he slipped into the abyss with no intention of ever returning. He almost succeeded, before a grey wolf with golden eyes dragged him home.

_Bring him back._

The wolf was defiant. The wolf commanded even the obedience of Leaf’s ancient gods. The wolf was his sister.

“You knew, but you did it anyway. And now I know everything.”

They heard twin howls then, and knew that their direwolves stand guard on the other side of the iron gate.

Arya placed a gloved hand on Bran’s arm and smirked. “I’m a little hurt you had to ask.”

“Arya…”

“You’re my brother,” she said in a firm voice. “And the old gods can’t have you.  If that was the price I had to pay, then so be it.”

The King in the North held her sister’s hand, and held it tight. “I’m glad you're home.”

Arya smiled. “As am I.”

She quickly stood and gathered her blades. When she started to walk towards the gate, Bran called out once more.

“Arya!” She stopped and turned. “How did you get out?”

It became a game then, between the winged wolf and the grey queen.

He asks a question he already knows the answer to - tucking in the secrets she sold the gods in return for her brother -

“They let me leave.”

\- and she hands them to him with a grateful smile.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

There had only been a day left in their journey to King’s Landing, and Arya was nowhere to be found.

 

Shortly after they left Brindlewood, Jon noted Arya’s absence and quickly left to search with Rickon and the direwolves. When they returned, desperate and empty-handed, Bran slipped into greensight and found her in the Gods Eye. With the King in the North and the three Targaryens atop the last two dragons, they took off for the lake.

By the time they reached south of Riverlands, Bran already felt Arya drown twice.

After leaving Viserion and Drogon in Briarwhite, they continued their journey on foot, before reaching the fabled sanctuary.

“Why would Arya be here?” Aegon asked, exchanging worried looks with Jon as they worked the oars of the small canoe.

The ice is slowly melting, but the lake is no less treacherous with its deathly silence and cold, clear waters.

“We spoke before I went to bed,” Dany said. The queen had been quiet up until then, choosing instead to let her eyes wander on the thick fog that surrounded the looming island. “She couldn’t have reached this place between then and when we first noticed she was missing.”

Bran avoided Jon’s gaze when he turned to him.

“We’re here,” he said, when the edge of Isle came into view.

The Isle of Faces is a majestic place. Rows upon rows of carved weirwood trees lined up from where they docked. The frost nipping at their trunks were soon to give way to new, crimson leaves come spring, and the trilling of snow shrikes was the only thing breaking the unnerving silence.

The Isle of Faces is beautiful, and dangerous in a way only certain beautiful things are.

“ _Seven hells_ ,” Egg muttered before taking off on a full sprint, Dany behind him. Jon, with Bran on his back, could only watch as his half-brother pulled a floating Arya out of the pond at the center of the small island.

The silver-haired Targaryens were both shivering when Bran and Jon caught up with them. Arya, pale and unconscious in nothing but a thin, white shift, remained still in Egg’s arms.

“Is she- should we…?” There was unbridled fear in Prince Aegon’s eyes.

“She’s alive,” Bran declared. Both Dany and Jon turned to look at him when he spoke - the queen with despair, his cousin with a hint of accusation.

When they returned to the canoe with his sister, Jon gripped his arm so tight he could almost feel him tremble.

“What is going on here, Bran?”

Bran thought of happier years then, when her sister loved Jon best.

He thought about their dreams of going beyond the wall and crossing the Narrow Sea. Now, when they’re all kings, and princes, and warrior queens; when he’s journeyed as far North as any man has ever been and Arya has travelled through Essos and brought back lost heirs and exiled princesses –

 

\- when she continues to carry ghosts in her heart and place phantoms between her and Jon Snow, Bran decided to hold unto the parts of Arya Stark her sister was willing share; even if it meant driving a wedge between him and the man who loves her most.

“Nothing, cousin.”

 

 

When she woke up in her quarters in the Red Keep that night, for a second her unseeing eyes were mad with grief and rage before she saw Bran and her arms went limp at her sides.

“How did you get there so fast?” he asked her.

Even with sweat on her forehead and bags under her eyes, Bran thought his sister never looked more beautiful.

“I flew.”

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

Two moons had passed since their arrival in King’s Landing when Daenerys received a gift.

 

“You Grace,” Arya quietly greeted as she entered the queen’s solar. Dany offered the seat across from hers, which the other woman customarily refused.

“Would you ever stop being so stubborn?” the queen asked with a gentle smile.

“No,” Arya replied, though not without a glimmer in her eyes. “You called for me?”

Dany nodded, and slid a small parcel across the table. It was a black box, no bigger than a girl's palm, wrapped in white ribbon.

“You know where this is from, don’t you?”

Arya did not respond, but she did not have to. She picked up the box and opened it.

Inside, was a golden dragon of Westeros.

“You can tell me what’s wrong, you know.” She tried to make Arya look her in the eye, but the she-wolf kept her gaze on the coin. “I can _help_.”

Quickly, Arya gathered the package and begged leave to return to her own quarters. Before the queen dismissed her, she held the younger woman’s arm.

“Does Bran know?”

Arya’s nod was sharp, and Dany released the breath she did not know she was holding.

“Then I suppose that should do for now.”

 

 

That night, she slipped into Bran’s chambers and found him sitting by the window.

“Do you reckon we should change our words into ‘Spring is coming’ now?”

Arya narrowed her eyes but shrugged nonetheless. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Brother and sister stared outside the window of the burned tower, where Bran insisted he stay, where their father once did.

“They’re coming for me, brother,” Arya whispered. “Winter will end and the gods must have their due.”

The cold breeze swept her hair, and for a brief moment Bran wondered if he’ll ever see her face again.

“ _Valar morghulis._ ”

He wanted to refuse, but Valyrian words are hard to refuse. “ _Valar Dohaeris_.”

A long moment passed before his sister sighed and knelt beside him, taking his hand. “You have to promise me, Bran. Promise me you won’t tell them.”

The King in the North shook his head, determined to fight a battle he has already lost. “I never wanted your secrets,” he told her. “I just wanted my sister."

“That is not how it works.” Her smile was calm, and Bran hated her all the more for it. “The debt must be paid, and I am better than a Lannister.”

She released his hand and the winged wolf has never loathed the gods more than he did in that moment.

“How did you convince them to let you go, Arya?”

He knew the answer. He always did.

“With a bargain.”

 

 

On the first day of spring, Arya Stark disappeared.

 

In the end, Bran lost his sister and was left with the secrets he vowed to safeguard.

In the end, even the winged wolf could not keep his promises.

_Promise me, Bran_


End file.
